


“Real Love”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Secret Admirer, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> The making of a Valentine’s Day card, from your secret admirer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Real Love”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

I.

As he stepped into the house, John made every effort possible to remain quiet. Rather than throw his shoes into the corner as he was fond of doing, the dark-haired man slipped the worn Chucks off his feet and set them down gently beside the door before making his way into the hallway. The apartment was relatively still, but John was not taking any chances. Scared of running into Yoko or one of their many assistants, John looked behind him as he quickly snuck into the den and shut the door, wincing at the loudness of the click as it fell into place. With a sigh of relief, John sagged against the cold wood, his eyes closing briefly as he tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

Once John’s breathing was under control, he tiptoed to his desk, sock covered feet sinking into the thick carpet. So intent was he on his destination that the dark-haired man neglected to get a lay of the land beforehand and immediately tripped over a small stack of thick leather-bound books that he had neglected to put away the night before. Stumbling into a wing chair, the bespectacled man dropped the shopping bags that he had been clutching tightly, polythene bags of varying colours and brown paper bags of varying sizes tumbling to the ground.

Groaning, John cursed out loud as he pushed against the fluffy cushions and got to his feet. In a fit of annoyance, he aimed a hard kick at his attackers, only to yelp in pain as his foot came into contact with the offending tomes.

“Motherfucker,” John hissed, as he hopped on one foot, his hands grasping the injured appendage.

With a sigh, John limped to his desk, dragging the shopping bags behind him as he turned on the desk lamp and seated himself at the small table. Looking back at the closed door, indecision warred on his face as he stared at the lock. With a shrug, the tall man pushed his chair back as he made his way across the room again, glaring down at the pile of books as he walked past. John quickly turned the lock with a sigh of relief, as he effectively sealed himself off from the outside world.

“I’m just taking the necessary precautions in case anyone tries to get in,” John said to himself, with a resolved look on his face. “You know, like a crazed fan or something.”

Sitting down again, the dark-haired man began unloading his bags, pulling out sheets of construction paper in varying shades of red and pink, white lace, silver and gold glitter, glue, double-sided tape, and an assortment of markers and colour pencils. Once John had everything lined up on the desk in front of him, he sat back as he contemplated his next move, the speculative look on his face changing to one of fear as he surveyed the army of arts and crafts supplies in front of him.

With a sigh, John slumped forward, his forehead resting on the desk.

“What in the world are you doing?” he wailed as he began to pound his head against the wood. “Are you fucking daft? I don’t even know where to begin!”

Sitting up, the desolate man now sported a bright red spot on his temple, the area throbbing from the repeated thumping.

Giving himself a good shake, John sat up straight and leaned forward, his hands immediately reaching for a large square of thick, red construction paper.

“I can do this,” he said resolutely. “I was a fucking Beatle! I wrote some of the best songs ever written. Making a bloody card should be no trouble at all.”

With a determined look, John turned the paper this way and that as he laid it on the wood surface. While reaching for a pair of scissors, his hand accidentally jostled things out of place causing a bottle of glue to fall to the carpet with a thud. At the unexpected sound John jumped a mile in his seat, a wild expression on his face as he looked around him, half-expecting an intruder to catch him in the act. When no dastardly fiend was found, John looked down to find the white plastic bottle balanced precariously on its side, a tiny droplet of sticky fluid inching its way closer to the white carpet. With a nervous chuckle, John rolled his eyes as he scooped the bottle up, and placed it on the desk where it belonged.

“Wanker…” he admonished himself with a shake of his head. “No more stalling. This has to get done if it’s going to reach there on time.” And with a firm shake of his head, John went back to the task at hand.

Taking out a pair of scissors, he started to cut out hearts of varying sizes, some in red and some in pink. Once he had the number needed, he placed them to side before folding a sheet of white paper in half. Brow furrowed in concentration with the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his lips, John cut the lace into a heart as well, before gluing it onto the front of the card and framing it with the shapes he had cut earlier. With a dab of glue here and a dab of glue there, the art project was nearing completion.

Sitting back, John tapped his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed his work.

“Needs something more…” he commented to himself, as he looked at the red and pink heart filled interior.

As a slow grin spread across his face, John rifled through his pockets, patting the back of his jeans and the front of his jacket before producing a rumpled piece of paper. Setting it down on the table beside his colourful handiwork, he straightened it out as he picked up a nearby pen and started copying the contents and filling the inside of the card with his trademark spidery script. Once he was done, John opened the vial of silver glitter and carefully sprinkled a capful over the card, showering the multicoloured hearts in sparkles.

After critiquing his handiwork, John jumped up from his seat with a satisfied smile.

“I think that’ll do it. I bet no one has ever seen a card this lovely before,” he crowed, as he opened the door to the den and dashed into the hallway.

As soon as he neared the foyer, the door opened and Yoko stepped in, her pale cheeks rosy from the cold.

“Hi, John,” she greeted warmly as she shook the snow from her shoulders.

Taken off guard, John quickly stopped in his tracks, looking like a deer in headlights. Shaking himself, John darted by his startled wife with a “Hullo, Yoko. Bye, Yoko,” as he ran outside the door and into the waiting elevator.

“Where are you of to in such a hurry?” Yoko called after with him a puzzled look on her face, as she poked her head around the door.

“Post office! I’ll be back soon!” John responded, the sound of his voice immediately cut off as soon as the elevator doors closed.

Turning towards their shoes, Yoko noticed the pair of faded black Chucks still among its comrades.

“Without your shoes…?” she asked the empty apartment, a confused look on her face.

With a shrug, she closed the front door behind her, and walked into the kitchen for a warming cup of tea.

II.

Yawning wide, Paul trudged down the stairs in his London home as he wrapped a warm robe around his slim frame to ward off the late winter chill. The empty house in the city was lovely, of course, containing all the trappings of pop stardom. However, it was a far cry from the warm and cheerful Scottish farmhouse that he called home, and where his family was currently residing. Not even the flashiest gadgets or the softest sheets could make up for horseback rides on the rolling countryside or the sight of happy little smiles bestowing kisses on his face the minute he walked into the house.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Paul made his way into the kitchen, immediately putting the kettle on the stove as he rummaged through the fridge for the necessary items, but found the icebox decidedly lacking. The basic necessities were absent, not even a slice of bread or a stick of butter in the vicinity.

Sighing tiredly, Paul shut the refrigerator with a snap, and quickly turned to the whistling kettle. After pouring the boiling water into a mug, the dark-haired man let a tea bag steep, as he sat down at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him. He immediately got lost in the news of the day, reading up on album releases and album reviews. However, the shrill ringing of the telephone roused him from his concentration, and with a look of annoyance, the brown-eyed handsome man reached blindly towards the side table, his fingers seeking the telephone but finding air instead. Turning towards the still ringing phone, Paul reached even further, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the ground.

Cursing, Paul reached forward and lifted the receiver, barking an angry hello, only to be met with the dial tone.

“Fucking hell,” Paul groused as he stood, slamming the receiver back into its cradle as he straightened his robe.

However, no sooner was he seated again, the doorbell rang, inciting another round of grumbled curses from the normally cheery lad. With a growl, Paul stalked through the house and ripped open the front door, his gaze immediately falling on the cowering form of one of the mail boys from his publishing firm.

“Uhhh… hello, Mr. McCartney,” the messenger stammered with a tip of his hat.

“What did you want?” Paul spat in harsh tones. Seeing the frightened look on the young man’s face, Paul let out a calming sigh, as he forced a smile. “Sorry, lad,” he apologized in gentler voice. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Calming considerably, the boy stood tall, and thrust his parcel at the older man. “Your mail, sir. I was instructed to deliver it to you this morning.”

“Ta, lad,” Paul replied, as he tucked the package under his arm. “Are there any other messages for me?”

“No, sir,” the boy replied. With another tip of his hat and a small smile, the boy turned and walked down the long driveway to his waiting bike on the other side of the gates.

With a shake of his head, Paul turned back into the house and shut the door, the letters rattling softly within their cardboard bundle.

Walking back into the kitchen, Paul sat back down and took a sip of tea, spitting out the now cold beverage with a grimace. With a frown, Paul stood and poured the liquid down the drain before refilling the mug with fresh water. Steaming cup in his hands, he let out another huge yawn as he carried both cup and package back to the table, setting the cup down before taking a letter opener to the box.

Spilling the contents onto the table before him, Paul sifted through letters from his accountants, music industry magazines, and sundry postcards from distant friends, before spying a decidedly lumpy red envelope with transatlantic stamps. Picking it up between his fingers, Paul turned the envelope over in his hands, noting the absence of a return address. Shrugging, the slightly puzzled man set it aside before attending to his other correspondence, jotting out notes to the letters that required a speedy reply.

After an hour or two of relentless writing, his work finally done and Paul turned back towards the red envelope. In a fit of curiosity, he sliced through the flap, allowing the card within to fall into his hands. Eyes wide in amazement, Paul took in the white card festooned with red and pink hearts, silver glitter, and lace. Dropping it quickly, he ran a tired hand over his face, as he sat back with a sigh.

“Just what I fucking need,” he grumbled low with his eyes closed, the back of his head balanced precariously on the back of the wooden chair. “Valentines from fucking fans. Does it ever stop?” he moaned.

With a look of trepidation, Paul lifted the edge of the card and took a peek inside, his eyes drooping at the sight of more garish red and lace. However, the appearance of decidedly masculine handwriting made him pause for a second before opening the card fully. His gaze evaded the hearts and glitter, and came to rest on the scribbles in the center, his eyes widening evermore at what he read:

“What the fuck?” Paul mused aloud, as he reread the card. “Secret admirer? Is this a joke?”

Shaking his head in confusion, Paul turned to the text again, his fingers absently tracing the handwritten letters.

“I don’t know…” he mumbled thoughtfully. “The writing does look awfully familiar.”

Pushing his chair away from the table with a screech, Paul picked up the card and wandered through the house absently, his gaze never leaving the object in his hand as he ascended the stairs. Rounding the corner, Paul entered his old home studio, and with a thoughtful look on his face, he placed the card in a drawer brimming with old sheets of paper covered in half-finished songs.

After pushing the drawer in, Paul stared at the wall in front of him, before abruptly leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

III.

Sitting cross-legged on the rug, Paul opened an old tattered notebook on his lap, flipping through as he looked for a blank page. He stopped every now and then to re-read a part of an unfinished lyric, his mind recalling bits and pieces of long forgotten melodies. Once he reached a clear sheet, Paul leaned back against the wall and made himself comfortable before pushing play on the ancient tape player that sat by his feet.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the first jangling of the piano keys, accompanied by a voice achingly familiar.

_Free as a bird…_

The voice of his mate, his partner, his lover, brought to life again with the push of a button. It was enough to make a shiver run down anyone’s spine.

His shoulders slumping and his eyes staring absently in front of him, Paul let the music simply wash over him, feeling, rather than hearing, the melancholy voice. His head moving from side to side and his finger tapping out a beat on the notebook, he immersed himself so completely that he could almost see John sitting on the stool in front him, slim frame facing the piano as his fingers danced along the ebony and ivory keys, turning towards Paul every now and then to treat him with a mischievous grin.

The graying man smiled softly at the image, his arms aching to enfold his old friend in his arms, his lips still missing the other man’s even after all these years.

The song ended abruptly, home recordings not having the benefit of fading out before the next song began.

_All my little plans and schemes,  
Lost like some forgotten dreams…_

Paul closed his eyes as a barrage of emotions assaulted him; grief, hatred, longing, and love, all dredging up memories from the past that he had tried to bury all these years. Everything was suddenly rising to the surface again, and for some odd reason he was loathe to banish them to the dark recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing his emotions to take control for once.

Suddenly the words of the song started to sound familiar, the lyrics breaking into his thoughts and forcing him to sit up and pay attention.

_From this moment on I know_  
exactly where my life will go.  
Seems that all I really was doing  
was waiting for love…

“I’ve read these somewhere before…” Paul mused to himself as he sat forward, moving his ear closer to the small speaker.

_Thought I’d been in love before,_  
but in my heart, I wanted more.  
Seems like all I really was doing  
was waiting for you.

Eyes widening, Paul suddenly jumped to his feet, kicking the tape player over in his haste. Rushing across the room like a madman, the harried man started ripping random drawers open and rifling through the contents as he searched for something he had stored in this very room years ago.

One after another he searched, his movements growing frenzied by the minute, afraid that the mysterious card that he received so long ago was lost forever. Suddenly, in the middle of a pile of tattered old sheets of paper, Paul found the card half hidden within the folds of sheet music that had been laid on top of it. The card had withstood the test of time rather well; the only concession made to the years was a slight yellowing of the white paper and lace. Pulling it out, Paul held the card reverently in his hands, eyes wider than normal as they stared at the card as if for the first time.

Opening it slowly with one finger, the once dark-haired man gazed at the interior of the card, lips moving slowly as they read the words that John had sung on the tape, eyes tearing up slightly as realization dawned.

Sliding to the floor, Paul closed his eyes tightly, the card fluttering to floor as he buried his face in his hands.


End file.
